The gorse withers on the ground
The Sin is autumnally thin
Silence hithes in blue
Those roughshed days
are scattered with the leaves

Schemes are forgotten
Feelings disposed
Into the chamber of nothingness
do we ascend

Lamenting
Guitars are trickling
And the lamp lightly lit
We have come to dream

The gorse withers on the ground
The Sun is autumnally thin
Silence hithes in blue
Those roughshod days
are scattered with the leaves

Schemes and plans are forgotten
Feelings disposed Into the neither
of nothingness do we ascend

Lamenting Guitars are plucking
And the duty lamp lightly lit
We have come home to dream